Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Hood Life, artist - Masta Killa. Album song Prince Of New York, in the genre Рэп и хип-хопDate of issue: 10.11.2008
Record label: Babygrande
Song language: English
Hood Life |
| This is hood life |
| All my thugs rolling on dubs, living the good life |
| This is hood life |
| Everyday we live our lives, like it’s the last time |
| This is hood life |
| Baby girl, if you don’t know, this is the hood life |
| This is hood life |
| Son died wit the gun on his waist |
| Watch the barrel spin, the rude one beg no friends |
| Arm self, we bomb for the wealth |
| And chant, men engage in battle, set the stage |
| I’m prepared with today’s Math, my mic be my rod and staff |
| All hail, this is Irief Jamel |
| Chief of the Chee Saw, gun you down southpaw |
| Still fuck my pussy raw, all praises due to Allah |
| Who wanna spar mind, on the 64 |
| Truth be the bulletproof, be 'em wit the moo-moof |
| Truth within reach, born breach, I still teach |
| Civilization, to all the human families |
| Who’s the Spanish kid, damage your shit, and he reppin' |
| To a nasty track, get the crowd moving, just like my weapon |
| Disrespecting who? |
| Playboy, I thought you knew |
| Killarmy’s a congregation of niggas that’ll murder you |
| We talking prime time, no bells ringing, never heard of you |
| But if I died, and you fucking with fam, then I’m serving you |
| Personally, ain’t no rehearsing your speech |
| I give you chills when I come through like a chalkboard screech |
| I never ask for nothing twice, I usually take it |
| You’se a tool that don’t work right, and usually break it |
| I’m a keep it real nigga, ya’ll usually fake it |
| Ya’ll play around wit bitches, I strip 'em naked |
| I that hit you wit that Smith & Wess' I found in the lake, kid |
| Ya’ll don’t hear me? |
| Then ya’ll don’t need to be near me |
| I’m not insane, I think it’s just a life of pain |
| Raps, gats and drugs, just run through my veins |
| Not to mention, all that life adore |
| All the times I had to pull out and hit the floor |
| Exchange shots, empty the clip and serve one more |
| And if no one got hit, then we call it a draw |
| It’s hood life, if you been there, I don’t need to tell you |
| If you smell like swine or pussy, I don’t need to smell you |
| Play your part, my thoughts is like state of the art |
| X-rays, don’t play, slugs’ll rip you apart |
| First things first, just let it be known, blow 'em from the dirt |
| Putting in work to get mine, yo fuck getting jerked |
| See I find the true shine lie within scent |
| Blinding these dispising envious niggas who analyzing my men |
| Ya’ll weak cats? |
| I seek and destroy like break beats |
| I take heat, from the fake in the street, and tap your feet |
| You know what I mean, don’t touch me, rest of ya’ll get amped up |
| Like Guess jeans, but courtesy like dry cleaners specialty |
| The recipe to me be 36 forms of energy |
| Born and swarm on, any enemy, remember me? |
| Last name’s heard, and that’s my word, you shot back but missed me |
| You bird, you blazing me is crazy absurd |
| Handle the cannon like I’m Julius Irv' and ball wit it |
| Violate and I’mma leave that ass just out the curb |
| Aiyo when lightning strikes my brain, electricity travel through my body |
| Twenty thugs with snubs, all up in the party |
| Knight Rider Ferrari, bitches, guns and drugs |
| Lay around in the dining room |
| Staten Island Platoon coming soon, money, greed and the law |
| My lyrics is hot in the summer June |
| Without Loud Records, my Army make more noise than kaboom |
| Magazine queen turn fiend for CREAM |
| She drown in the pool of kerosene |
| Her big mouth is what lead to fire, to the gasoline, she blew up |
| Like Clint Eastwood in Unforgiven |
| 4th Disciple electronic musician |
| Bitch ass niggas play your position |
| Examine more bodies than a physician, physician… |